


Four Sundays

by Bryonia_Alba



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Epilogue? What epilogue?, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-03 01:05:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10956477
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bryonia_Alba/pseuds/Bryonia_Alba
Summary: A lot can change in a month’s time. Neville learns this for himself when he unexpectedly runs into an old schoolmate.





	Four Sundays

**Author's Note:**

> Written for smutty_claus, 2009.

The numbers were off again.

Neville pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling gustily in frustration. Mathematics had never been his strong suit, which was why he’d never taken Arithmancy whilst in school. It was a decision he hadn’t regretted until recently, when he’d gone into business, opening a plant nursery selling fresh flowers for all occasions, herbs for the home brewer, and seasonal items which helped boost sales during the winter months. He’d quickly learned bookkeeping wasn’t always as straightforward as he’d hoped. He certainly hadn’t thought he’d spend entire days adding and subtracting, hoping to get the same balance twice in a row.

He’d begun dreading Sundays, his self-appointed day with the accounts. It always ended with knotted shoulders, plenty of swearing, and a spoonful of headache powder stirred into a glass of water before bed. He knew help was available, but stubborn pride forbade it, for now. Besides, he knew Hermione was currently caught up in the million and one details surrounding her upcoming wedding to Charlie Weasley, and the last thing he wanted was to disturb her with his problems during this happy time in her life.

If things continued as they were, he thought he might have to bend and ask anyway. Perhaps once she returned from her honeymoon, or after she and Charlie had settled into their new home.

Maybe.

Rolling his shoulders, Neville poured more tea into his cup and took a sip before picking up his quill once more, as ready to again attempt bending the numbers to his will as he’d ever be. The account sheets would balance tonight if it killed him.

His stomach growled. A quick glance at the clock told him it was nearly dinnertime. He’d skipped lunch earlier in his battle with numbers; and, truth be told, he _was_ feeling a wee bit peckish. Perhaps a few minutes away from the office to clear his head and pick up a spot of dinner was just what he needed in order to look at his finances with fresh eyes.

Decision made, Neville gulped down the tea he’d just poured, nearly scalding his tongue in the process, and reached for his cloak. The Leaky Cauldron wasn’t a long walk, but evenings were decidedly chilly, this being the last Sunday of November. Soon, most of Neville’s sales would consist of wreaths; evergreens for mantels, doorways and banisters; and poinsettias. He expected sales of Christmas trees to pick up in a couple of weeks as well, as the day itself drew nearer.

Fastening his cloak, Neville closed and locked the shop door behind him and made his way down Diagon Alley to the Leaky Cauldron. Sundays weren't the busiest of days, and he had no trouble making his way up to the bar to place his order of fish and chips to take away.

His gaze roved around the common room while he waited, but he was startled nonetheless when a gravelly female voice beside him said, "This must be my lucky day, Longbottom. I'd planned to visit you tomorrow, yet here you are."

He turned toward the speaker just in time to see a tall, rather imposing figure lower the hood of the voluminous black cloak the stranger wore, revealing thick dark hair twisted into a coronet, a broad face with a long nose and a longer jaw, and close-set hazel eyes. The woman looked familiar, probably a former schoolmate. Not a member of Dumbledore’s Army...a former Slytherin, perhaps?

No, it couldn’t be. The girl he was thinking of had been downright plain. Not that the woman before him now was beautiful either, or even pretty; but somehow the ten years between Hogwarts and now had transmuted her features from homely to a kind of austere handsomeness.

Realising he’d been staring like the worst sort of dolt instead of replying, Neville finally managed a weak, "Bulstrode? Millicent Bulstrode?"

"So you do recognise me." Millicent Bulstrode turned back to the bar, picking up the pint glass in front of her and drinking deeply. "I was starting to wonder. It's been awhile."

"Yes." The last time Neville had seen her had been just before the Battle of Hogwarts, leaving with the other Slytherin students. Unlike others in her year, she'd managed to escape the notice of the Carrow siblings most of the time despite her height and large frame, and therefore hadn't been often called upon to practise curses, hexes, and Unforgivables on her classmates. The rare times she _had_ been called on, her performances had been much weaker than the others. She had never been outright disobedient against the Carrows, nor had she joined Dumbledore's Army. She had simply done her best to disappear, to both sides.

"Care to join me for a pint while you wait?" she asked. "I really had planned to come see you tomorrow."

"Why?" Neville blurted out the question before he could stop himself. Fortunately, Millicent didn't seem to take umbrage at his continued rudeness.

"I wanted to discuss business with you. You're a shop owner, and recently, I've become one also. You're aware that Slug and Jiggers is under new management?"

Neville had seen the sign in the apothecary shop window, but until now he hadn't known it was Millicent behind it. "I'd heard," was all he said instead. "I suppose congratulations are in order?"

Millicent chuckled, reaching again for her pint. "I suppose. It wasn't an inheritance I was expecting, if you want to know the truth. You never did say whether or not you wanted that pint."

"Oh! Um, sure. I guess." Neville rested his elbows on the bar. "If that's what you want."  
Millicent signalled Tom behind the bar, and a few moments later Neville had his own pint set in front of him. Picking it up, he took a sip, wiping foam from his upper lip. "So," he said after some time passed with neither speaking, "you wanted to come visit me tomorrow to tell me you're the new manager of Slug and Jiggers?"

"Not new manager. New owner," Millicent replied. "Ever since I got the news I've been making plans to upgrade the premises, and I thought you'd be a person to talk to, considering you're in a similar line of work. Plants and potions are natural allies, after all. Do you think you might be interested? I could tell you more tomorrow at lunch, if you want. I don’t want to drown you in too much information.” She smiled wryly. “I’ve probably come on too strong as it is. Surprisingly enough, subtlety isn’t my strong suit, even if I did get Sorted into Slytherin.”

Neville’s fish and chips arrived, and he handed over his coins to Tom before picking up his sack. “I’m always looking to add to my clientele,” he said. “If you want to purchase some of my plants for your potion-making, I’m sure we’ll be able to reach some sort of agreement. When do you want to meet tomorrow? I usually close up the shop for an hour at noon.”

“Noon it is.” Millicent turned back to her drink. “I’ll see you tomorrow, then. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

“My pleasure,” Neville replied. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Well, _that_ had been interesting, he thought, heading back out into the cold. Maybe Hermione had been right, and House rivalries really did fade somewhat over the years. Millicent had certainly been polite, and so had he, once he’d recovered from his surprise. Times were changing, for the better.

Now if only he could get his bookkeeping to balance for the better, too.

)O( *)O(*)O(

Neville handed the woman a Sickle and three Knuts in change, smiling down at the little boy clinging to her robes. “Enjoy your poinsettia, madam,” he said. “Would your son like a peppermint stick?”

The boy’s face brightened when the mother nodded. Neville reached under the counter and retrieved a peppermint stick from the stash of sweets he kept just for this reason during the holiday season. The red and white bands twirled slowly around each other as he handed it over.

“What do you say?” the woman prompted, and the boy thanked Neville shyly before leaving the shop, the mother telling the boy he could have the sweet _after_ they’d had lunch. Neville glanced at the clock, noting it was five minutes until noon, and still no word from Millicent Bulstrode. He figured he’d wait until five past the hour, and then close up the shop for lunch whether she arrived or not.

He spent the next few minutes tidying the area around the till, until the bell above the shop door tinkled and Millicent entered. She spotted him almost immediately and smiled, one that held genuine warmth instead of the cordiality Neville had expected.

“Hello, Mr. Longbottom,” she said. “I hope I’m not late.”

“Twelve noon on the dot.” Neville was impressed. He was a punctual person by nature, and appreciated it in others. “And please, if we’re having lunch, call me Neville.”

“Then you must call me Millicent. Miss Bulstrode sounds terribly stuffy, if not downright spinsterish.” Smoothing out a wrinkle from one of her gloves, she asked, “Are you ready? I took the liberty of making lunch reservations at Muse.”

Muse was _the_ place to see and be seen among the Wizarding business and political community. Many a deal had been made or broken within its walls, and Neville couldn’t help but quirk an eyebrow before Summoning his cloak. “Rather lofty surroundings for a simple shopkeeper, don’t you think?”

“Two simple shopkeepers,” Millicent corrected, “but perhaps not for much longer.”

Intrigued, Neville offered his arm. “Let’s go, then.”

Muse was everything Neville had heard about and more. The dining room was all elegance, from the linen tablecloths to the silver and crystal and exquisite bone china. The wait staff was solicitous and knowledgeable, the menu trendy and sophisticated, the wine list extensive. Neville felt incredibly out of place in this establishment filled with finely tailored robes and manicured hands and low, cultured voices.

“Arsenius Jigger was my great-uncle,” Millicent explained over salmon roulade and a delicious arugula and pear salad, “and before you ask, yes, he was the same Arsenius Jigger who wrote _Magical Draughts and Potions_. He partnered with Tiberius Slug after Slug’s grandfather died and left him the business. Unfortunately for him, he died eleven years later without any heirs, and Great-Uncle Arsenius inherited the entire business, although he kept the name in memory of his friend.” She ate a bite of the potato galette accompanying the salmon, following it with a sip of white wine. “Anyway, he died earlier this year just before Halloween. He had a son, but my great-uncle disowned him once he learned Uncle Albert had joined the Death Eaters. He’s serving a life sentence in Azkaban right now, not exactly the place to run a business. My mum died of complications from dragonpox when I was two, so that left me to become the new proprietress of Slug and Jiggers Apothecary.”

“Are you planning to keep the name, or change it?” Neville asked, forking up a bite of salmon, which was easily the best he’d ever tasted.

“I’ll keep the name, for now,” Millicent replied. “It’s known. There aren’t many students who didn’t buy their first potions kits there. However, it’s still operating much as it did during the nineteenth century. I sometimes wonder if it hasn’t seen a thorough cleaning since then, either. I’m planning to sort through the inventory, contact some vendors. Get the place tidied and somewhat modernised before the beginning of the next school year.”

“And where do I enter into all of this?”

Millicent rolled her eyes. “Clearly, I’m not a businesswoman born. I should have asked this question _before_ boring you to tears with my family history. So here’s the question: do you sell in bulk?”

This was much more familiar territory. “Some plants, yes. Right now it’s limited to calendula, violets, angelica and other flowers that can be candied or eaten in salads. Even though I’d never actually eaten here until tonight, I’ve sold edible flowers to Muse’s proprietors. I also sell some plants in bulk that are used in common remedies for common ailments. I’m planning to expand within the next couple of years, depending on demand.”

“Would fluxweed be one of those items?” Millicent leaned forward in her chair.

“Yes. Why?”

“I’m looking for another source. I’ve no idea why my great-uncle bought his all the way from Poland. If I could contract with another dealer either in-country, or even across the Channel in France, I’d save thousands of Galleons a year in import fees and taxes. There are other items I’m looking to cut corners on in cost, if not quality; and fluxweed is near the top of the list. It’s an ingredient in nearly every common potion in existence.”

“Tell me about it. It’s easily one of my top sellers. If you like, we can return to my office after we’ve eaten and I can give you a tour of the facilities; and afterward we can discuss bulk rates?”

Millicent looked delighted. “I’d love to. I’ll have to return the favour and show you around the apothecary sometime soon. Perhaps you’ll have some ideas on updating the inventory I haven’t thought up yet.”

“I’ll drink to that.” Neville saluted her with his wineglass, and received a salute in return. “To a profitable business relationship.”

)O(*)O(*)O(

The following Sunday found Neville glaring at his account books again. He knew he shouldn’t be so upset, since he _knew_ he was in the black now that he’d acquired Slug and Jiggers as a new account. He and Millicent had negotiated a contract that promised to become increasingly lucrative in the near future, despite the concessions he’d given her. Millicent Bulstrode, it seemed, drove quite a hard bargain when she set her mind to it.

Neville squinted, dipped his quill into the inkpot and scratched out some numbers, replacing them with new, making sure this time they matched the amounts on the invoices. If this kept up he was going to need spectacles, he just knew it.

The sums summed properly this time, and Neville leaned back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers, feeling his usual Sunday headache begin to brew behind his eyes. His one consolation was that he’d actually finish before dinnertime. Oh, how he hated doing the accounts!

The bell over the shop door tinkled merrily, and Neville straightened, frowning. The shop was closed Sundays. Had he forgotten to lock the door behind him when he’d arrived this morning? It wasn’t entirely outside the realm of possibility. His memory had improved somewhat over the years, but occasionally he’d still forget simple things like locking doors, or packing lunch.

“We’re closed!” he called out.

“I know,” came the unexpected reply.

“Millicent?” Neville scrambled to his feet, nearly tripping over them in his haste to leave the office. He found her in one of the aisles, fingertip hovering above the bluish petals of one of his glassvines, just now coming into delicate, brittle bloom. “Careful, those petals are razor sharp when they’ve just opened. What are you doing here?”

“I know they’re sharp. I’ve worked with them often enough,” she replied, lowering her hand and turning to face him, and he was mildly surprised to discover she was as tall as he, even though he shouldn’t have been. “As for why I’m here, I was doing a bit of holiday window shopping, saw the light on in your office, and decided to drop in and say hello. I was going to knock, only the door opened when I tried it.” Uncertainty flickered across her face. “Did I come at a bad time? I can leave if that’s the case.”

“No, oh no. Actually, I’m glad you’re here.” Neville shook his head frantically. “I was just doing the accounts, and I could use the break, truth be told. Won’t you come into the office? I’ll make tea, and I think I still have some of the gingerbread Ginny baked left.”

Millicent remained silent a moment, and Neville wondered if he had inadvertently insulted her by insinuating he only wanted her company because it was better than columns of numbers. Which was true, but it wasn’t the _only_ reason. Their business lunches had shown she could be brilliant company when she wanted.

“If you’re sure,” Millicent answered finally, a trace of uncertainty lingering in her tone. Neville wanted to kick himself. It was a feeling he knew all too well from his own school days, the sense his presence was merely tolerated and not truly wanted.

“I’m positive,” he said bracingly, giving her his most encouraging smile. “I’d be happy to see you even if I wasn’t struggling with the books. Come on, follow me.”

Neville ushered Millicent into the office before she could protest further and had her sit in the guest chair while he pulled out the teapot and canister from their place in one of his file drawers, filling the pot with water from his wand and giving it a tap to begin heating. He managed to locate a second cup, performing a discreet Cleaning charm to remove the dust. He didn’t often have guests in his office.

“How do you take your tea?” he asked, pulling out the tin of gingerbread from a desk drawer and opening it, offering it to Millicent before taking a piece for himself. “I’m afraid I’m out of milk, but I have honey, or lemon if you prefer.”

“Both, thank you.”

Neville looked at her over his shoulder, and nearly swallowed his tongue. Millicent had removed her cloak, and rather than the conservative and concealing robes she’d worn on previous occasions, this one displayed seemingly endless curves in all their Rubenesque, rounded, buxom glory. There was nothing lithe or delicate about her figure, this was womanliness writ large. Again, Millicent didn’t fit any conventional definition of beauty, yet Neville found himself awestruck anyway. Jerking his gaze from her cleavage, he said, “It’s no trouble. Truly.” His voice cracked on the last syllable.

Once the tea finished brewing, Neville assembled a tray and brought it to the desk. Fortunately, Millicent didn’t seem to notice anything amiss. “The green cup is yours.”

“Green for Slytherin?” Millicent’s eyebrow quirked, eyeing Neville’s own bright red teacup as she reached for her tea.

Neville hesitated a moment before sitting down in his own chair. “I guess. I just thought, you know, red and green, Christmas colours, it being close to the holiday...We can trade cups...”

“Neville, it’s all right. I was teasing.” Millicent sipped from the green cup, watching him over the rim. “You really were doing accounts, I see.”

“Yeah, I was.” Neville relaxed into his seat, seeing she’d taken no offence. “Bane of my existence, they are.”

“Why don’t you hire an accountant?” Millicent nibbled at her gingerbread. “Especially since you hate keeping the books so much? Can you afford one?” Grudgingly, she added, “This is good gingerbread. You said Ginny Weasley made it?”

Neville hid a smirk at the tone Millicent used for Ginny’s name. “Yes, she did, but she’s Ginny Thomas now. She and Dean got married a couple of years ago, but she still seems to think I need looking after. As for the accounts, Hermione does some small business accounting on the side, and I was planning to ask if she’d be willing to add mine to the roster after the first of the year. I’d ask now, but she’s marrying next month. She’s busy enough without me adding to her worries.”

Millicent scowled when Hermione was mentioned, and this time Neville couldn’t help a small chuckle. “You know, she looks much the same when your name comes up in conversation. I don’t think she’s ever forgiven you for that headlock in fifth year.” He winced, realising he was treading on dangerous ground. “Sorry. That was a long time ago. Forget I mentioned it.”

“Smarmy know-it-all,” Millicent muttered. “Why wait for her to come back from her honeymoon? The accounting firm I use has been absolutely brilliant. I think I have a business card somewhere...” She began patting down pockets while Neville kept his gaze firmly averted from the sight of large palms smoothing over lush curves of hip and thigh, finally producing a card and holding it out toward him. “Here we are. Wycroft and Associates. Herbert Wycroft is an old family friend; he’ll do you up right.”

“I’m familiar with the name. Gran uses them too.” Neville accepted the card from her outstretched fingers, reading the name and contact information before tucking it away. “I’ll owl them tomorrow.”

Millicent beamed. “You do that. Also? Your dragon dung supplier is overcharging you.”

“Beg pardon?” Neville blinked, glancing quickly at the invoice in question.

“He’s overcharging you,” she repeated. “There’s a supplier outside of Abergavenny who charges almost half that price, and the quality is just as good. However, if you _want_ to pay a hippogriff’s wing and tail for dragon shit, don’t let me stop you.”

Neville looked at the other invoices scattered across his desk, then back at Millicent. “Did you notice anything else while I was making the tea?”

“I wasn’t snooping, if that’s what you’re implying.” Millicent set down her tea with a sound somewhat harder than a polite _clink_. “It just caught my eye, that’s all.”

“No, it’s not that at all.” Neville pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Are you any good at Arithmancy spells? I still need to get these accounts balanced before I can go home tonight, and I figure two heads are better than one. Unless you had something better to do? I know this can’t be anyone’s idea of fun.”

Millicent let out a low, throaty chuckle and moved her chair around the desk. “If you’re not careful, we may end up becoming business partners. Let me see that invoice again.”

“You’ll help? Millicent, I could almost kiss you for being a lifesaver.” Neville picked up his quill almost enthusiastically.

She went very still, teacup stalled halfway between the desk and her lips, something that might have been wistfulness appearing in her eyes before she regained control. “I’m glad I could be of assistance.”

Ninety minutes later, the week’s accounts were tallied and done. Neville drank the last of his tea and nodded toward the pot. “I think there’s enough left for one more cup. You’re more than welcome to have it.”

“No thanks. I think I’ve had enough to float a Bludger.” Millicent stretched in her chair. “I should probably go home. That, or finish my window shopping. There’s still daylight left.”

“Fair enough. Give me a few moments to tidy up in here, and I’ll walk with you.” He held up a hand when Millicent opened her mouth, presumably in protest. “Part of the way, at least as far as the Apparation point. You have no idea how wonderful it is, knowing I’ll actually get to eat dinner at home on a Sunday night instead of more takeaway.”

“You’re practically wriggling in anticipation,” Millicent noted dryly. “If you want to walk with me, I won’t stop you.”

“I most certainly am not wriggling,” Neville answered, trying and failing utterly to sound affronted. The two exchanged grins as he shrugged into his cloak and made sure he had the shop keys in hand.

They stepped outside, Neville sucking in a breath at the suddenly chill air. Quickly, he locked the door and set up the anti-theft wards. They shimmered into place, and Neville wound his scarf more securely around his neck before offering his arm to Millicent.

“The cobblestones can get slick,” he said as they linked elbows. He took another deep breath of cold air when she leaned in close enough to feel her breast press against his arm. “Nobody wants a sprained ankle or a broken wrist this close to Christmas.” Tilting his head, he added, “This way.”

The walk to the Apparation point was silent, the cold making the pace a brisk one. Neville’s thoughts raced, unable to think of a topic to break the quiet that didn’t sound foolish, if not patently ridiculous.

Millicent broke it for him. “There’s an ice rink at Memorial Park. I thought it might be nice to go skating tomorrow evening. Would you like to come? Even if you don’t skate, there are vendors selling cocoa and hot cider.”

Neville’s stride faltered. “Are you asking me for a date?” he blurted out, the words spilling out before he could prevent them.

Millicent’s face hardened. “Never mind. Forget I asked.”

“No...no...I mean...I wasn’t refusing! It just...it sounded like you were asking me for a date.” Neville halted, forcing Millicent to stop also. A part of him let him know in no uncertain terms that mixing business with pleasure could only lead to future pain, while another, louder part of him declared he’d never have another opportunity like this again and if he wanted to become better acquainted with this prickly, fascinating woman the time to do so was _now_. “Because...because if you were, you should know I was only half-joking earlier when I said I could kiss you after you offered to help me with the accounts.”

“You...really?” Hazel eyes widened in momentary shock before becoming hooded, guarded once more. “Neville, if this is a joke, it isn’t funny.”

Giving in to Gryffindor impulse, Neville reached out, cupping Millicent’s face between his gloved palms. “You remember what I used to look like when we were at Hogwarts together, don’t you? Short? Fat? Always tripping over my own two feet? Trust me, this is _not_ something I would joke about. Ever.”

He’d never thought he’d live to see Millicent wearing the expression she wore now: unsure, scared, vulnerable, emotions he knew and understood all too well. Hell, he felt the same way this very moment, although he hoped he was doing a better job of disguising them as he leaned in and pressed his lips to hers. They were cold yet soft, warming quickly beneath his. 

She shivered against him as the kiss deepened and he felt the first tentative touch of her tongue against his. They stood for some unknown time, standing in the street whilst exploring with lips and tongues and teeth, until they finally remembered it was bloody cold outside and Neville carefully broke the kiss, palms still cupping her face.

“I’d love to go ice-skating with you tomorrow,” he said. Millicent responded with a tremulous smile, and for the briefest of moments she was not only beautiful, but radiant.

And then, because her lips were still parted and pink and swollen, and just because he _could_ , Neville leaned in and kissed her again.

)O(*)O(*)O(

It was Sunday again, the first one in a very long time where Neville didn’t find himself trapped behind a desk struggling with the bookkeeping. Wycroft and Associates had been very pleased to take him on as a new client, although judging from the fawning tone of the reply owl and their initial meeting Neville thought it was due less to Millicent’s influence and more to the supposed prestige of having a Hero of the War as part of their clientele. Either way, it no longer mattered. The books were their problem now. Well, probably not a problem; they were accountants, after all. Still, they could have it, and good riddance.

Instead, this Sunday had consisted of much more pleasurable pursuits. Indeed, the entire past week had been filled with more social activity than Neville had known in quite some time, and all of it had been spent in the surprisingly – or perhaps not so surprisingly – delightful company of one Miss Millicent Bulstrode.

Following an evening of ice-skating on Monday, Tuesday had been spent completing both of their Christmas shopping, something Neville tended to postpone until Christmas Eve. Wednesday found them in a Muggle pub Dean had told Neville about, diving into plates of pub grub and watching that strange sport called football on a big-screen Muggle tellyvision. On Thursday, Millicent had finally given Neville the complete tour of Slug and Jiggers, showing him all the secret nooks and crannies she’d uncovered in her earlier explorations. They’d taken advantage of each one, snogging like teenagers until they were breathless with laughter and arousal. Friday, Neville had met Millicent in Hogsmeade after discovering both had deliveries to make there, and after dinner at The Three Broomsticks they’d ended up playing in the snow on the village outskirts, leaving a snowman and several snow angels behind when they finally returned after dark. Yesterday, Millicent had stopped by Neville’s house, putting up and helping trim the Christmas tree he’d brought home.

It had been a brilliant week, a glorious week, easily one of the happiest weeks of Neville’s life. He was a man fallen head over heels.

This particular Sunday, Neville and Millicent were inside one of the greenhouses behind his grandmother’s house, whiling away the hours until afternoon tea. Neville needed to tend to his potted spring bulbs, intending to place them on his shop shelves after Christmas. January was the bleakest month of the year, and jewelled hyacinths, singing daffodils and other varieties brought a quick splash of colour and cheer to households and workplaces alike. Plus, they made nice gifts for Valentine’s Day, Neville had learned. 

Millicent assisted, her large, strong hands surprisingly gentle as she worked on repotting sibilant snowdrops, which made a sound much like snowfall in the forest. The delicate white and pale blue blossoms shimmered between her fingers while she tenderly tamped down potting soil around the bulbs.

“How’s that?” she asked, brushing the back of her hand across her forehead and leaving behind a streak of dirt. “It’s been a long time since I had to work with plants in Herbology.”

Finishing his own pot, Neville leaned over to examine her work, hands folded loosely before him. “Very nice. They’re practically humming, they’re so pleased.”

Millicent smiled and stretched, sighing. “It’s quiet here. Peaceful. It’s a nice change from the holiday madness. I imagine the extra income is nice, but you’ll probably be glad when Christmas is over. I imagine all the retailers will be.”

“Winter’s my quietest time of year.” Neville shifted, straddling the potting bench and resting his hands on her shoulders, rubbing gently. “March is when business for me skyrockets. I’ll barely have time to breathe, I’ll have so much to do.”

Millicent let out a soft moan as Neville rubbed. “Ah yes, the start of growing season. Oh...that’s... _nice_.” Her eyes slipped shut, head tilting to one side. “Lovely.”

“Like that?” Neville continued rubbing, lips twitching when Millicent made a sound suspiciously close to a purr.

“Just like that.” A slow smile crossed Millicent’s lips, her eyes fluttering open. “You have magical hands, you know that? Even with the calluses and dirt under your nails. Your plants must adore you.”

“If you say so.” Neville watched his fingers flex and move over Millicent’s shoulders. “Some of those plants would literally eat me alive given the chance. Any of the Tentaculae, for instance. No adoration there.”

“They’re ungrateful is all. I’ve seen the way you touch them, talk to them. I think it’s charming.” Millicent’s laugh was throaty as she reached out, running her hand over his arm while he massaged her shoulders. “You touch them the same way you touch me.”

“I do not touch you like I do with the Venomous Tentacula or a Snargaluff,” Neville protested mildly. “Those need a much firmer hand. Besides, I like touching you.”

“Do you? You’re not afraid I’ll bite?” Her smile widened. “It’s very sweet of you to say that. I like touching you, too.” Her fingers brushed the inside of his elbow.

“I like that, too.” Neville glanced up quickly, meeting Millicent’s eyes briefly before looking back at her hand on his arm, feeling his face heat. “A lot.”

Catching his blush, Millicent shifted on the potting bench, straddling it and facing Neville. “Is that so?” she asked, her hand moving from his arm to his chest, moving in slow circles down to his stomach. “A lot?”

His startled gaze flew toward Millicent's face as her hand moved a little lower. Her tone remained deceptively innocent, but the look in her eyes was anything but. "Yeah," he answered, voice thick. "A lot."

Her fingers moved lower, slipping beneath his shirt to brush against bare skin, and he couldn't hold back a shiver that was part incipient arousal and part nervousness. Tea-time wasn’t far away at all, and the last thing he wanted was for Lissy, Gran’s house elf, to find them in a compromised position, much less his Gran.

“Do you like the way I’m touching you now?” Millicent asked, her tone hushed, fingers still caressing his stomach, her light touch making the muscles beneath his skin jump and flutter.  
Neville swallowed hard and nodded. “Yeah. I do.”

“How much?” Millicent peered up at him beneath spiky dark lashes as her hand drifted even lower, toying with the front of his trousers for several tantalising seconds before undoing them with a twist of her fingers.

Neville nearly stopped breathing as she curled her fingers around his length. He moved closer almost without thought, legs widening on either side of the potting bench.

"Mils, anyone could walk in and see...Lissy...Gran..." he protested weakly despite his body's traitorous, needy response to her touch. "What if we're caught?"

"You can order the house elf not to say anything if she finds us, and if she does we’ll be tidied up and presentable long before your grandmother comes looking.” Millicent’s voice was rich with quiet amusement, her fingers tightening around his erection. Squeezing her hand, she stroked him long and slow, watching his face. "Do you want me to stop?"

Neville wasn’t about to ask her to stop, not now when she had him hard and aching and struggling desperately not to buck into her hand. It had been ages since he'd last been touched like this. _Ages_ , and he was fairly certain his own hand didn't count.

Her hand slid up, her grip sure and firm, and his eyes fluttered shut. This wasn't going to take very long at all, not if she kept stroking him like that; and it had been such a very long time, and maybe if they were very quiet and very lucky no one would notice.

"God, Mils," he groaned, pressing his forehead against her shoulder and biting his lip, fighting to keep quiet.

“I’ve been wanting to do this practically since we met,” she whispered into his ear, still stroking him, the fingers of her other hand brushing across the tip of his cock, smearing thick, clear drops of precome. “Ever since you walked into the Leaky Cauldron. You realise I’ve never allowed anyone to call me Mils until now, without punching the daylights out of them? You’re the only one, Neville. The only one.” Turning her head, she kissed his ear before nipping the lobe lightly with small, sharp teeth.

Neville turned his head slightly, giving Millicent better access to kiss his temple, his ear, his jaw. She had both hands around him now, squeezing and stroking, her fingers sliding across the sensitive glans and wetting it with the precome leaking copiously from his slit. It was difficult staying quiet as the pleasure built with each upward movement of Millicent's hand on his cock. He breathed heavily through his nose, bottom lip still caught hard between his teeth. His hands found and gripped Millicent's knees, fingers curling into her robes as a small sound escaped his throat.

“If you keep on with what you’re doing, I’ll make sure I stay the only one who gets to call you Mils,” Neville gasped, tensing within Millicent’s grasp as he raced toward completion. His breathing hitched as Millicent's thumb skated across the tip of his cock, and that was it. He thrust hard into her hand and came, panting, feeling warm wetness on his belly, slicking Millicent's hand while he convulsed through each slow pulse.

Slowly he relaxed, face still buried in the crook of Millicent's neck as he tried to catch his breath. She brushed her lips over his temple, nuzzled her cheek against his hair until Neville finally drew back. Reaching for his wand, he used a simple Cleaning spell to erase the semen streaking his belly and coating Millicent’s hand.

“You’re all right?” she asked softly.

“Brilliant,” he replied. “I wish I had time to return the favour.” Neville kissed Millicent's jaw, lips moving along the long line of it until he could kiss her properly on the lips. "It _was_ brilliant. And I _will_ return the favour, one of these days. Hopefully sooner than later."

Millicent’s cheeks turned pink at the promise, watching while Neville tucked himself back into his trousers and refastened them. “I wish all of my Herbology classes had been this interesting,” she remarked. “When can we do this again?”

Unfortunately, Lissy chose that moment to pop into the greenhouse before Neville could reply, announcing in her high, squeaky voice that the tea was ready.

)O(*)O(*)O(

“You enjoyed the party more than you thought you would, admit it,” Neville said on the last Sunday before Christmas, ushering Millicent into his house and removing her cloak from her shoulders. “You weren’t even the only Slytherin there.”

“You could have knocked Hermione over with a feather when Ron arrived with Pansy!” Millicent replied, almost cackling in remembered glee.

“Hermione, Dean and Ginny, hell, pretty much everyone except Luna; but then, very little fazes Luna. I was a bit shocked myself, to be honest. I thought they hated each other.” Neville hung their cloaks by the door and turned, catching Millicent’s hand and tugging her further into the house.

“I thought they did, too,” she said, letting him lead the way into the lounge. “I think it caused an even bigger furore than when you showed up with me in tow, even if Hermione looked a bit green in the face.”

“I warned them beforehand. That’s why they weren’t as surprised.” Neville pulled his wand from his sleeve, aiming it at the fireplace. The logs inside crackled flame a moment later, and Neville turned his wand toward the Christmas tree, a small flick of the wrist setting the fairy lights ablaze with twinkling colour.

“You _warned_ them?” Millicent sat down on the sofa, crossing her arms over her formidable chest and glaring dangerously. “And here I thought Ginny and I were actually getting on. She was only doing it to be polite?”

“Well, I let them know beforehand I was bringing you with me to the party; and no, you and Gin really did hit it off. She gave you her gingerbread recipe, didn’t she? I’ve been trying to do that for years, and you accomplished it in one evening. No, Ginny wasn’t the one you needed to worry about, it was Hermione. I told her if she didn’t stop acting as though you were both fifth years again _I’d_ put her in a headlock.” 

Neville held his hands in front of the fire, looking over his shoulder when Millicent didn’t answer right away. She was staring at him, eyes wide in what almost looked like admiration.  
“You said that to her?”

“I did.” Neville turned from the fireplace and smiled. “Would you like something to drink? I could make Irish coffee, or a hot toddy, or _oomph_...” He got no further, because Millicent surged off of the sofa, throwing her arms around him and peppering his face with kisses, the sheer force of her exuberance sending them both tumbling onto the carpet.

“That is the most romantic thing anyone has ever done for me,” Millicent declared, kissing Neville after each word. “You darling, darling man!”

“You’re welcome,” Neville replied, once he felt he could get a word in edgewise. “She’s a dear friend, but I think Charlie’s going to have his hands full with her after they’re married. Besides, I don’t want to talk about Hermione.” Lifting his hands, Neville settled them against the curve of Millicent’s waist, fingers tightening before flipping her over so she lay on her back, grinning at her squeal of surprise. She regrouped quickly, reaching for his robes and unfastening them, shedding them in record time before attacking the buttons of the shirt he wore underneath.

“I don’t want to talk about Hermione, either,” she breathed. “I’d rather have you instead.”

“Right here on the floor?”

“Why not? The fire’s warm, there’s a lit Christmas tree, the carpet is soft, you’re right here – what’s not to like?” Her fingers paused on his shirt, scowling up at him. “Or were you thinking candlelight and rose petals for our first time?”

Neville, who had considered precisely that scenario for their first time, hesitated only the barest second before bidding it good-bye. “We’ll do that on Valentine’s Day,” he answered, going to work on Millicent’s clothing, unfastening her robes while Millicent finished unbuttoning his shirt. Along the way they ended up on their knees, facing each other, the easier to push fabric from shoulders and sleeves down and off arms. Millicent twisted her arms behind her back to undo her bra while Neville pulled out the pins holding up her hair, letting the strands cascade down in a black waterfall. The moment both were naked from the waist up Neville wrapped her in his arms, trading frantic, fevered kisses.

“Too many clothes still.” Neville broke the kiss with a gasp, reaching for the catch of her skirt.

“I was about to say the same thing.” Millicent’s hands were already on his belt buckle, and soon after both were equally bare. "You're lovely," she whispered, her hand reaching for him as Neville lowered her back down onto the carpet before stretching out beside her, gazing down. She rolled onto her side, one hand going to his chest, fingers grazing over his nipple, which quickly hardened beneath her touch.

“You’re lovely too, you know that?” Neville made a soft sound of pleasure as Millicent’s fingers continued stroking and petting his nipple into a tight nub. Nuzzling her shoulder, he brushed his lips over her skin which was creamy pale and flawless, yet another revelation in a continuous series of revelations made as he became further acquainted with his former House rival.

“I’d say you were drunk, but I know you only had two cups of wassail the entire evening,” Millicent murmured, her hand sliding into his hair. “But thank you.”

“No need to thank me. It’s only the truth.” Neville continued slowly kissing his way down Millicent's body, Millicent's fingers soft in his hair, combing through the strands gently as he moved further down, over her ribcage and around her breasts. He cupped the heavy, pendulous weight of each one in his hands, teasing both nipples into hard peaks with lips and tongue, smiling against her skin when Millicent arched into him, her grip tightening on his hair.

“Neville...” she whispered. “Oh, _Neville_.”

“I believe I owe you a favour,” Neville said, voice husky with desire. “I’ve been looking forward to repaying it.”

Dropping a final kiss on the tips of Millicent’s breasts, he traced his lips over the bountiful curve of her stomach, tongue circling her navel, and laughing softly when she protested that it tickled. Sliding further down her body, he rested a hand atop her mound, fingers carding through the coarse black curls there. He peered up at her, at her bottom lip caught between her teeth, wordlessly asking permission and receiving a wordless nod in return.

Shifting between her thighs, Neville resumed kissing her, lips moving over her hipbones and the crease separating her legs and torso. This close, the smell of her arousal filled his nose, thick and heady. He took a deep breath, determined to maintain control for a little while longer. Turning his head, he began kissing the soft skin of her inner thighs, pausing every so often to suck gently, gradually moving higher and higher, crinkly hair pressing against his cheek. Millicent trembled beneath him as warm breath ghosted over her wetness. Her thighs opened a bit wider and she canted her hips, opening further to him in blatant invitation.

It was an invitation Neville wasn’t about to refuse. He'd gone as high as he could go, couldn't kiss her any further without covering territory he'd claimed earlier. Pushing her thighs apart a little more, he gently parted her with his fingers, pressing a soft kiss to her centre. Neville's name sighed past Millicent's lips as his mouth closed over her secret flesh. His tongue darted out, flickering over the sensitive nub, her tangy, earthy essence making him moan, greedy for more.

"You taste so good," he whispered, beginning to lick in earnest.

Millicent keened above him, head twisting to one side, her breathing escaping in soft mewling sobs of pleasure, her hips moving up and down seemingly of their own accord. Encouraged, Neville's hands moved, spreading Millicent open even wider, sliding his mouth over slick, swollen flesh. The sounds she made as she twisted and writhed beneath the sensual onslaught spurred him on further, tongue delving into her before licking up toward her clit, tickling it with his tongue. Circling her clit, he slid a finger into her, fucking her slowly as his tongue moved over her core, driving her closer to the edge.

" _Please_ ," she whimpered, her fingers tightening in his hair, holding him close, her hips jerking against him. Her body was bow-string tight, her thighs shaking beneath his ministrations. A twist of his hand and a final swipe of his tongue rewarded Neville with a flood of wetness as she came, shuddering and crying out, her inner muscles clenching tightly around his finger.

Panting, Millicent slumped into the floor, rallying enough to lift her head and grin. “You’ve turned me into a puddle,” she accused, satisfied smile widening.

Neville peeked over her hips, his answering grin lopsided, trying to ignore the fact his own arousal was so sharp and needy it bordered on pain. 

"I’ve heard that’s supposed to be a good thing," he replied, moving up her body to kiss her, his erection pressing against her thigh. Stifling a groan, he looked down at her flushed face. "I want to be inside you so badly, Mils."

“I want you inside me,” Millicent said quietly, her eyes soft as she looked up at him. “I want that more than anything.”

Neville didn't need to be told twice, bracing himself on one hand above her and guiding his cock to her entrance with the other, sliding inside until he was fully seated. His breath caught as she tightened around him, expelled on a low groan.

"Keep doing that and we’ll be finished before I get started," he said hoarsely. He started moving, keeping his strokes slow and even, unless and until Millicent told him to go faster. "You feel so damn good."

"What? This?" she asked with an impudent smirk, tightening around him again.

Neville groaned again when she squeezed around him, face tightening in a grimace of pleasure. "Yeah, that," he replied, his voice cracking. She moved with him, easily keeping up with the gentle pace of his lovemaking. Lifting a hand to his chest, she toyed at a nipple, pulling it gently. Neville made a rough sound in his throat, swallowing hard. "Do that again?"

Millicent smiled at him. "Do what again? This?" She squeezed down around him, once, twice, tightening and releasing the muscles holding him as he moved inside her. "Or this?" She circled her fingers around his nipple before pinching it a tiny bit, tugging at the other one at the same time.

"Both?" Neville pleaded. His next thrust was both harder and deeper, biting his lower lip as Millicent's fingers pinched harder. "God, Mils, _yes_ ," he breathed, speeding up his thrusts, each tweak of her fingers sending a jolt straight to his groin.

"Yes," she whispered to him. "I want to feel you come." Neville gasped as she tightened around him hard as she could, twisting her fingers, pulling and toying with his nipples, urging him on. "Let go."

Neville obeyed, rearing back and slamming into her, again and again, each outward stroke tugging against the hold Millicent had on his nipples in an oddly intoxicating mix of pleasure and almost-pain. Sweat broke out on his forehead, dampening his fringe, his movements becoming jerkier, sharper as he closed in on his orgasm.

His breathing quickened, chanting "Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck" like a prayer, feeling his balls tighten and draw upward. He cried out as he came, his entire body jerking with the force of it.  
Millicent reached up, hands around his shoulders, pulling him down on top of her when his shaking arms threatened to collapse. He followed her down, too spent to speak, his breathing harsh as he laid his head between her breasts. Her hands moved over his back, soothing him, holding him while he trembled uncontrollably from aftershock. Slowly, he willed his arms to come around her, holding onto her, letting her hold him. 

“That was brilliant,” Millicent murmured, shifting beneath him. “Perhaps we should go to more parties if they all end like this.”

Neville chuckled, lifting his head just enough to kiss the tip of one breast. “I love you,” he said softly. “No one has ever made me feel this good.”

“I love you, too,” Millicent replied, just as softly. Lifting her hand, she stroked his hair. They didn’t speak again for a while, waiting until breaths evened and sweat cooled.

Finally, though, Millicent looked down at him, her expression impish.

“What are you doing Christmas Eve?”


End file.
